made of dead meat

The duchess’ suite ran warm. Each curl loosened from its pin fell only to stick to the back of Morax’s neck, heavy with the oils combed into it only hours before. It was the heavy velvet draped over the walls, she thought, that trapped all heat, made the room crowd in around her as if it was small and intimate and not the personal bedroom of one of the Court. There were no hidden slits for attendants to look in through the walls, but why would they, when the good Duchess allowed them to participate in Morax’s humilation firsthand?

She stood in front of a tall vanity as the servants did their work, her feet aching from long hours of dance and talk while forced into heels that pinched her toes and dug strap-marks into her skin. They stayed on as deft fingers untied the tight corset at her waist and others undid the chains around her horns. There were countless hands to steady her if she started to fall, of course, but every weakness was marked by the woman Morax watched in the mirror—the Duchess herself, lounging on the bed in her nightclothes, sipping at a glass of wine.

These were the Duchess’ clothes, the Duchess’ jewelry, the Duchess’ shoes. Even after years at Court, Morax could not always escape her patron’s attentions; with each failure, she emerged into another demon’s ballroom or gardens, acutely aware of how much she looked like Murmur’s toy, and the mocking gazes on her back. She kept her head held high, always.

Except when she was here.

The dress fell away, and finally, one of the succubi knelt. “Lift your foot, ma’am,” they requested. Morax obliged, biting her tongue to stifle the noise she wanted to make as she set her bare foot on the carpet. She wanted nothing more than to return home and collapse into her own bed, watched over only by her most trusted maids—but even at her estate, work awaited. “Now the other.”

“Those heels suit you nicely.”

Morax’s eyes flicked down at the sound of the Duchess’ voice, focusing on the shoes. They were unreasonably tall stilettos that, even with her grace and practice, made her feel helpless. She stretched out her toes slowly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She didn’t need to see the Duchess to hear the smile in her voice. “Of course, dear. Next time we go out, come over a bit sooner, would you? With a little practice, we can fit you into my favorite pair.” She made a gesture with her glass towards the closet. One of the servants hurried over, vanishing into the shelves only to return with a tall pair of black boots with straps that ran all the way up to the knee. They could barely be considered heels—ballet boots, Morax thought, with a reflexive twist of disgust she struggled to keep off her face.

“Of course,” she said, carefully neutral. No meager hour or two of practice would make her capable of lasting all night in those, and they both knew it. Morax would have to waste precious hours of ‘free’ time at home if she wanted to keep any dignity. “Your generosity warms me, ma’am.”

“The pleasure is all mine. You look wonderful in my clothes.”

The Duchess Murmur was a tall, slender woman, all angles where Morax was curves. If she had ever worn these, it was a long, long time ago. Still, Morax made the appropriate polite noise. She stayed still as a statue as the servants finished undressing her. “I would hate to put you out for more, if your servants could return what I wore here…”

“Are you leaving already?” Disappointment dripped from the Duchess’ voice. Morax dared to watch her through the mirror again and stiffened as one of the maids dropped an unmarked jar of oil into her waiting hand. Her heart beat loud in her chest, almost drowned the Duchess out as she continued, “Your feathers are looking dull, lately… Have you been getting enough rest, dear? I thought I’d help.”

“I have an important meeting at my estate,” Morax demurred, “or I would–”

“With the incubus from Eligos’ circle?”

Silence. Morax could not quite bring herself to close her mouth in time, fingers twitching as her mind raced. “My lady, I was not aware that you knew him…?”

“Oh, of course I don’t know him.” She laughed, as if the idea of it was absurd—and it was, for someone of Murmur’s station. It was for someone of Morax’s station, too, if one wasn’t trying to gather information. “One of my lovely girls went out to free you from that little nuisance. You know you always have access to my informants, dear. There’s no need to associate with men like him.”

Morax lowered her head and her gaze, staring without sight at the curls of gold worked into the carpet. She folded her hands together in front of her, hooked her tail around her ankle. She wanted to scream. She trained her rage to look like fear; Murmur would not know the difference. “… I understand, ma’am. It was my mistake.”

“Silly girl. You’ve already been forgiven.” The Duchess handed off her glass to one of the girls, toyed with the cap for the oil. “Do you have anything else tonight, then?”

“… No, ma’am. I would be honored to accept your help.”

“Come here, then.”

Morax turned, walking gingerly over the carpet—show a little weakness, give her satisfaction—to stand by the edge of the bed. She raised her eyes just enough to meet the pleased smile on the Duchess’ face and watch her raise her hand to brush a curl behind Morax’s ear. She shivered. The older succubus’ smile grew. She gestured to the middle of the bed.

“Go on, lay down on your stomach. Let me see those wings of yours.”

It took all of Morax’s will to force herself through the motions without hesitation, crawling over the silken sheets and folding her arms to rest her head on, vulnerable not only to the Duchess but to the attendants she knew still roamed the room. Her wings were feathered where most succubi—including the Duchess herself—only knew scales or leather, and their beauty made them one of the Duchess’ favorite toys, the thrill of claiming her most intimate limbs more than enough to sate her jealousy. Morax steadied herself. This was not the first time. It would pass.

Her tail twitched at the sound of the lid being unscrewed, then the slick noise of the Duchess dipping her fingers inside. The first pass of her hands across Morax’s wings made her flinch against her will. “Relax, dear,” the Duchess soothed, her voice low and amused. “I had the girls warm it up beforehand.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Her arms muffled her voice. The last time it had been cold. Though there was something– different about it, this time, something beyond the temperature. Morax focused on that instead of the way the Duchess’ fingers felt as they worked deep through her feathers, massaging the tight muscle beneath, and the wetness between her thighs in response. The room was warm, but was it this warm?

The Duchess blew on a section of feathers she’d already oiled, and it burned. Morax made a choked noise, trembling with the effort it took not to flex her back and shake the succubus off. “How did you get that incubus to agree to meet you, dear?” It took several moments for Morax’s brain to catch up to the words, confused. The Duchess’ voice dripped dispproval and she didn’t understand– “You should know better than to whore yourself out to anyone who might be of use to you. You’re no common succubus, girl, not anymore.”

“That’s–” Now her throat burned, anger and humilation threatening to break through Morax’s control; she reigned herself in, barely, claws digging into her elbows. “No, ma’am, I didn’t, I– I blackmailed him.”

“You did? The wife, I suppose.” The Duchess dug her fingers in and Morax squeezed her eyes shut. The oil, it made every touch feel as intense as putting her wings to the fire, and she could barely regulate her breathing. How did the Duchess stand touching it? “That’ll be no good next time, if you were thinking you’d try again. My girls already told her. I expect him to be halfway drowned in a river by now.”

If she was anywhere else, Morax would have laughed. However long ago it happened, everyone knew that Murmur got her position through killing her husband over infidelity; the fact that she got to facilitate that for another would only be the cherry on top to ruining Morax’s networks. As it was, she could only make a small noise of acknowledgement. “I wasn’t. Ma’am.”

“Good. Girls, if you would?”

The slightest breeze in the room made Morax’s head spin as her feathers ruffled. She barely registered the noise of another jar opening until hands were working oil into her skin, this one with a heady floral smell that overwhelmed her sense of scent. “I told you to relax,” the Duchess said. The disapproval was still there, but it was light, now, chastising. Fingers curled around her wrists and pulled her arms out to work the oil into them too, leaving her face half-buried in the pillows, the muscles in her neck suddenly too weak to lift. Panic scrabbled uselessly at the inside of her chest.

“My lady, I’m sorry, I’ll relax–” Her words came out muffled and childish. Not even her tail was spared the treatment, left lying limp and useless across the sheets next to her. Morax couldn’t control any part of herself but her expression, and even that was shot through, disregarded. The Duchess hummed and pet down her back.

“I know, dear, you’ll be very good for me now. You know how much I hate to do this, but you’re always so tense. None of my lessons stick, is that it?”

“No, ma’am–”

“No, they don’t stick?”

Morax shut her mouth, refusing to play further into the Duchess’ game. She laughed, resting her fingers along the scent glands on Morax’s neck, working her own scent into the sensitive skin there. “I remember being this young,” she sighed. “Not knowing any better about the Court. Back then, I would have done anything for someone to show me the ropes. You have the potential, Morax, but it still needs refining, by an experienced hand.”

Her other hand dug into Morax’s feathers again and Morax could do no more than choke and shake beneath her.

Then the touch was gone, all of it. Morax held her breath, didn’t loose her grip on her mind, even if she couldn’t control how pliant her flesh had gone. “Roll her over, girls.” The hands returned, clinical, pulling her onto her side and then onto her back, and her wings touched the sheets roughly all at once and she—

“And here you prove my point.”

The sheets were damp beneath her by the time she breached thought through the pain, her cunt clenching around nothing as slick dripped from her hole. Morax stared up at the Duchess, the overly-fond condenscension making her chest feel cold even as her core stayed warm and her wings burned. She closed her mouth and swallowed, too late. Drool dried tacky down her chin.

“Coming before I gave you permission. I know your self-control is better than that, girl. You haven’t even pleased me, yet.” The Duchess sighed and made a gesture off to the side. Out of the corner of her eye Morax saw the Duchess’ girls crowd back in, gloved hands dripping oil, before they began to grope the front of her, leaving nowhere but her cunt and her face untouched. Her body felt like lead. She could barely twitch anymore, but every touch brought disproportionate pleasure. “I suppose it’s my fault for letting you stray so far from my patronage. The Court wouldn’t mind if you were absent for a few months– a blink to them, really– while I trained you.”

Morax’s mind went blank. A few months would turn into years would turn into the rest of her life, here, used as a toy, her mind gone, her body reshaped, her life– her goals– “I’m sorry, my lady, I promise I’ve learned well. Please, allow me to make it up to you now–”

“Silence.”

Her mouth shut. She thought of stars.

“You haven’t found your key to immortality… it would be a shame to take such precious time away from you if it weren’t necessary.” The Duchess stroked her hair, a mockery of comfort. “But that just means we’ll have to fit a lot of learning in tonight, won’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.

White hair fell over the Duchess’ shoulders as she smiled down at Morax. “Then let’s start.”

The attendants bustled around the bed like colorful ants, arranging things to the Duchess’ command as Morax silently tested her range of motion—of which there was none, not even the slightest curl of her fingers or toes. She could move her face, and she could keep her holes tight, and that, she supposed, was all the Duchess thought she deserved. A pair of succubi lifted her arms above her head, looping rope around them from shoulder to wrist, then tying them to the headboard. Another pair spread her legs apart to a point that’d be painful for any human and tied her ankles in place there. She kept their faces in mind long enough to know them, if she saw them anywhere else, then let them melt into a faceless mass, an extension of the Duchess’ hand. If she thought too hard about how many people she was at the mercy of, she wouldn’t be able to control herself.

They propped pillows beneath her to lift her up and present; they wrapped ropes around her wings and nestled vibrators against the base and the joints, ignoring the tears that sprung again to her eyes. The Duchess herself smeared the burning oil onto her nipples before the clamps went on, a chain between them, and cooed at her bitten-off cry. “I know it’s a lot,” she soothed. “The most important thing for us to do, Morax, is to keep our composure, however much they use us. This,” she wiped away a tear that fell down her cheek, “is exactly what they want. You can’t let them have it unless you’re faking it. Understand?”

“I,” she wasn’t able to keep her voice even, “I understand, ma’am.”

“Let’s see if you do.”

One of the attendants fingered her ass open, until the Duchess could slide a large plug inside. It wasn’t the largest thing she’d made her take, but it was a stretch, accompanied by a slow burn Morax almost didn’t recognize above the rest until it worked into her in earnest. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain, shot through with heat, and missed one of the attendants handing the Duchess something else until it began to slid into her cunt, slicked up just the same. It was long and thick enough to knock the breath out of her, even before the Duchess set an attendant to thrusting it in and out at a steady, punishing pace.

It burned too, of course. Morax expected nothing else. She always learned quick. She was a star now, a ball of fire, and the tears dried before they could spill.

“Open your eyes, dear,” the Duchess said, her voice warm on Morax’s ear. She obeyed. “Use that clever mouth of yours on me well enough, and I might cool you off before our next lesson.”

Morax didn’t trust her voice, prayed the Duchess would not demand an answer. Lust looked kindly upon her just this once, for the older succubus simply straddled Morax’s face, dripping wet, her scent so heavy Morax almost choked—smoke and roses and the tang of metal. One of the Duchess’ hands grabbed at Morax’s curls, and the other back to tug at the chain. “Go on. Show me just how well you’ve learned.”

And she obeyed.